


Nikiforov, you're blocking the view.

by ArtistOnIce



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pain, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Skating, Translation, figure skating, victor nikiforov - Freeform, yuuri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 06:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11800386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtistOnIce/pseuds/ArtistOnIce
Summary: Victor Nikiforov is twenty eight. It seems like his life is done.





	Nikiforov, you're blocking the view.

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Никифоров, вы мешаете смотреть.](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/316080) by шати. 



> Hello, everyone! This is my first work on this website and it's a translation.  
> When I read this story in Russian I was really impressed because it was sharp, fresh, emotional and so different from the other works. I was so inspired that I took a responsibility and translated it into the language that I love so much. These languages are both amazing but each in their own way and it's difficult to present the whole picture of one's beauty through the means of the other. But at least I can try and retell the story. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I do! 
> 
> P.S. English is not my native language so if you notice any mistakes please let me know!  
> Since it's my first work here any feedback will mean the world! 
> 
> Don't forget to read the original story in Russian [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5019485)!

Victor realises that he is on the freaking bottom when he can't hear the music anymore. Any song he puts on creates nasty disgusting indifference inside him. He can still evaluate the key, the melody but can't see how he’s gonna skate with it. 

He's twenty eight. It seems like his life is done.

Feltsman doesn't even shout at him at practice anymore for failed jumps and elements performed without any emotions. He rubs his nose with disappointment, glares at Victor as if he wants to say something but always cuts himself short and sighs.

Victor knows everything his coach wants to say.

Nikiforov, you've burnt off.

Nikiforov, you're not going to win gold anymore.

Nikiforov, get out of the way.

Nikiforov, there are other skaters in the national team.

Nikiforov, you're spent material.

Nikiforov, go to the junk yard.

Nikiforov, farewell.

Victor still tries to find a tiny bit of fire in his soul, even one spark (and the spark will kindle a flame), but there is a fucking wasteland inside him, burnt out land, even rain doesn't pour so that he could express his despair and misery. He has no other emotion but dull, hopeless, cold indifference.

Victor tries to remember the time when he could flutter above the ice, when the judges were breathless with amazement, when they praised his artistry, his fire, his light, sang the odes full of love and admiration to him.

Victor used to wallow in their emotions, wrap himself in them, as if putting on an invisible crown, as if he knew - nobody can do what he can.

Now the crowd he has to perform for strangles him, it seems to be a pack of hungry wild dogs waiting for his wrong move, ready to clutch and tear him apart.

Nikiforov, you're a washed-up. 

Nikiforov, step aside.

Nikiforov, you're blocking the view.

For the first time in his life Victor fails the quadruple flip, falls on the ice and can't get his breath back because all the air in his lungs has been knocked out.

'Victor, Yura is going to compete in the Senior division.' Feltsman says. 

Nikiforov, go away.

Nikiforov, they won't excuse you for your mistakes anymore.

Nikiforov, people are bored.

Nikiforov, put yourself on the deathlist. 

Nikiforov, get lost already.

'Nikiforov,' Jakov says to him, 'You need a rest.'

Victor nods, packs his things, almost runs away from the skating rink to be away from the ice, away from his own thoughts. The very first store on his way home offers a big variety of tobacco and wine. Victor doesn't even see the point in rejecting such beauty.

Let's try, shall we.

Nikiforov, taking up smoking in your thirties is not a good idea.

Victor chokes with the smoke but obstinately takes a puff after a puff. He's sitting on the balcony in his flat, it's raining cats and dogs outside, the water's pouring down the window so that nothing can be seen, only blurry lights. He's embracing himself with one hand. Makkachin pokes his wet and cold nose into his face, whimpering piteously and harshly, not knowing how to escape from his master's misery.

Nikiforov, even your dog knows that you're done.

They say cigarettes help from stress.

Bullshit.

Nikiforov, sportsmen are not supposed to drink.

Victor hasn't given a fuck about prohibitions for athletes since he was twenty one, because the only way to survive those numerous banquets was to get drunk so that reality ceased to be so smug and boring. It seems that's how he met Christophe.

Alcohol helps to forget your problems.

Jesus, even advertisement doesn't lie that much, try again, because it does not help Victor.

Nikiforov, what the hell are you doing?

Victor finds himself in the bath of hot water, razor in his hand, Makkachin is pawing under the door and howling, then bursts into a loud bark. Blood is running down his wrist.

Nikiforov, cutting yourself is not the answer. 

Nikiforov, stop.

Victor doesn't want to die, it's all a complete fuck-up, he still hopes to step on the ice again, he wants to fly again, hear the ovations again, he wants to leave because he's had enough, not because of his middle age crisis and loss of inspiration.

Nikiforov, stop. Try to reboot the system.

Nikiforov, for fuck's sake.

Makkachin's poking his face into the bandages on Victor's hands, he understands it's something alien, he's circling around, trying to reach Victor's shoulders with his paws, looking into his face with his smart eyes. He pokes him under his knee as if saying let's go for a walk. Don't be like this.

Victor chokes from the stifling and endless understanding that he just can't bear it anymore.

Nikiforov, you've lost the spark.

Nikiforov, leave with dignity.

Nikiforov cuts his ribs with the blade as if trying to reach the bones, to carve the ode of his own unworthiness on them, though it's not even worth it.

Two weeks later Feltsman calls, asks vigorously what Victor's up to, how life is, how everything is and if he should come over? A garbage bin in Victor's kitchen is full of bloodstained bandages and used medicine - he takes care of the wounds, he's not an idiot, he's read how to hurt himself safely. Victor hasn't been out for a week and his flat smells of alcohol and cigarettes. Makkachin's sitting in the far corner and looking with disapproval - saying, I don't recognize you. Saying, my master smiles all the time, he's like sun, moon and stars themselves. My master can't be this pathetic mess. My master would find the way out.

Nikiforov, this is the bottom.

Nikiforov, you're drowning yourself.

Nikiforov, take off the stone from your neck, don't jump into the water with it.

Nikiforov, figure skating is not everything.

Feltsman visits him a month later, finds him half-drunk. He goes to the kitchen to get some cold water and gasps when he sees the bandages in the bin and an ashtray on the window sill. He comes back to the room and slaps him in the face in a hard, painful, bitter way, grabs him by the collar, looks into his eyes and whispers:

'Your life is not only about skating, moron.'

Victor understands that Yakov seems to be right, that there must be something else. Feltsman drags him into the bathroom ignoring the clothes and switches on the cold shower. Victor feels how water is gushing on his face and shoulders, he freezes, begins to shiver and only then Yakov lets him be, pathetic, wet, tired and broken.

'I'll find you a psychologist,' his coach says confidently. Victor shrugs his shoulders, he knows that he won't attend even one meeting.

Nikiforov, it's time to come up, you have oxygen deficiency.

Nikiforov, living on the top floor can't be taken as an advantage.

Nikiforov, think about the others.

Victor waits until the key turns inside the door, pulls off his sweater and looks for something sharp. He glances in the mirror on the way and freezes looking at his reflection. Victor Nikiforov from the looking glass has silver stubble, clotted hair, dark circles under his eyes and inside them despair crumbling into small pieces.

Victor's got barely healed cuts winding down his ribs, swollen, red, like worms under the skin.

Victor keeps peering at this broken taken to pieces something and wants to howl.

Makkachin reacts instantly to his heartrending sob, comes up to Victor. Victor sinks to the floor and hugs the dog, buries his face in Makkachin's soft fur, tries to embrace him to keep forever this care, this warmth. Makkachin licks Victor's face and looks at him warily: why all the tears, I'm here.

Nikiforov, welcome on the road to recovery.

Victor announces his holiday for the next year. He takes his dog and goes on a world tour. He wants to be as far from dances, music, pain, alcohol and cigarettes as he can. He wants to wander around the city holding a dog-lead in his hand. He wants something that doesn't have a name.

'You should start a family,' Feltsman tells him. 'You know, in children we find our joy and delight.'

Yakov doesn't have a single child and Victor doesn't believe him.

Nikiforov, listen to what the elders say.

Victor has no idea how he ends up in Japan. I mean, it's spring, sakura is blooming, Tokio is noisy, but beautiful. He's holding a cup of coffee that he managed to buy after talking to a barista for 20 minutes because Victor doesn't know Japanese and the Japanese don't want to know English.

One moment Makkachin pulls the dog-lead out of Victor's hands, runs along the alley towards new unknown places. He's barking joyfully while Victor is running after him swearing his head off.  
Catching the dog that's bored of a ceremonious walk in the street is quite a thing.

Nikiforov, put some more effort.

'Vic-chan?' he hears a surprised voice and freezes when he sees that Makkachin has knocked over some Japanese guy so hard that he dropped his bag and glasses. Victor considers it polite to come over, pick up dropped things from the grass, call off the dog. To look the guy in the face.

Nikiforov, it's error 404. The system needs resetting.

Nikiforov, do you believe in love at first sight?

Nikiforov, didn't you like gingerheaded ones?

Nikiforov, say 'hello' at least.

'Excuse me,' says Victor in English and feels how the lightning strikes him when the guy suddenly sighs and looks at Victor as if a God descended to him if nothing else. 

'It's ok,' the Japanese guy hurries to reply and, damn, he has a freaking awesome voice and no accent.

'I used to have a poodle like this.'

'Vic-chan?' Victor raises his eyebrows.

'Victor,' the Japanese guy smiles piteously but Victor forgets to breath watching his lips move.

Nikiforov, do you hear the angels sing?

'I'm Victor too,' smiles Victor warmly. The Japanese guy blushes and looks down.

'I know. Victor Nikiforov. I used to skate before.'

'Have we met before?' It seems that if Victor hears 'yes' now he'll tear his freaking heart out.

Nikiforov, you have an arrhythmia.

The Japanese guy shakes his head sadly and adds:

'I had a very unsuccessful career. We were at different Grand Prix events and I didn't make it to the Final. And afterwards I screwed up everything I could. I couldn't go on. That's why I had to quit.'

'Твою мать,'* says Victor, meets Makkachin's eyes and nods to himself. 'And what's your name?'

'Katsuki Yuuri,' says Yuuri. 

'Yuuri,' Victor's savouring his name and can't understand why the guy suddenly blushes and looks away.

'Katsuki,' corrects him Yuuri. 'We don't call each other by first names outside the family.'

Seriously? - Nikiforov thinks.

Nikiforov, you're going to earn the right to call him by the name, aren't you?

Nikiforov, admit it, you're in love.

Nikiforov, you urgently need a rink.

Nikiforov, in pair skating you have to skate with a partner of the opposite sex.

Nikiforov, well done, now try to get his phone number.

Victor is almost on cloud nine when he manages to persuade Yuri to show him around the city. He's planning to come over to the rink sort of unintentionally, and also make Yuri go to the ice to see how he skates. Somehow, it seems very important because he doesn't trust himself but if Yuri steps out on the ice he'll prove that something that's stuck in his chest.

On the ice Yuri blushes all the time, tries to persuade Victor to go somewhere else. Victor feels almost disappointment, smirks painfully, because he can't just ask, he's too scared that he was wrong about the feeling, that he's lost and it was only an illusion.

Yuri agrees at some point as if he'd lost the battle to himself and he grabs the rink fence at first, looks at Victor distrustfully but then skates to the center and then..

Of course Yuri falls as soon as he tries to jump. Victor remembers how he was lying on the ice after that failed flip and steps out onto the ice.

Dim surface of frozen water under the blades is singing along with the melody being born in his soul.

Victor tells Yuri that he wants to stay in Japan longer. Saying, he's found his inspiration here. Makkachin pokes his face in Yuri's hand and looks at his master: that's your excuse, isn't it.

Victor creates his new program while looking at Yuri's dark hair.

The first time Yuri sees the scars that Victor left himself as a reminder of his own inferiority he sighs long reaching the white lines crossing Victor's chest with his fingers. He looks at them, can't take his eyes off and seems to be about to cry. He's not being himself for days which makes Victor worry and then he says with his head down: but now you're all right.

Victor agrees that he is. Yuri can't make up his mind, bites his lips, looks at Victor and then he suggests going to a tattoo studio. And Victor asks to draw a pattern over the scars because he wants to erase any reminder of the destructive emptiness in his soul because now everything inside him is singing.

Two months later Victor has a pattern of blue roses and white lilies on his ribs.

Victor hears the music and wants to dance.

Victor is 28 and he's sure going to win the next Grand Prix. And The World Championship. And all medals in the world.

Victor knows who he's skating for.

Nikiforov, congratulations.

**Author's Note:**

> * Твою мать! - holy crap! / bloody hell!


End file.
